


Mummy Dearest

by sadistically_sweet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Diapers, F/M, Forced Ejaculation, Infantilism, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Spanking, forced sissification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Woman's back, and she want to play a game...</p>
<p>*Just a short little piece that was wiggling in the back of my brain, nothing too special*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mummy Dearest

Sherlock groaned, his head feeling as if it were wrapped in cotton, tongue sitting thick and heavy in his mouth. He cracked an eye open to find himself lying facedown on the floor of his flat.

_‘What in the name of bloody, pus-spewing HELL?!?’_

Still groaning, he tried to push himself up, but he just couldn’t muster the strength. _‘Drugged…’_ the word pushed through the fog that was enveloping his mind. He managed to get his hands underneath him, but something felt...off. He pried his eyes open again; gloves. No, not gloves-mittens. Soft, fuzzy, lilac-colored mittens.

Sherlock stared, dumbfounded, as whatever chemical that coursed its way through his system kept him from fully comprehending what he was seeing.

Arms shaking, he tried to push himself up again; this time getting his chest off the floor before they gave out and he hit the carpet with a thump and short cry, _“G’ugh!”_

There was a sharp _click-click-click_ sound coming from the hallway, the noise triggering something in his drug- addled brain. _‘Oh, no…’_ he thought, the realization sinking deep into the pit of his stomach even before that clipped, polished voice spoke; “My, my…is little Sherly up from her nap already?”

“Y-y-yoooouuuuu,” he moaned, mouth and vocal cords not quite cooperating yet, as a very familiar pair of white and black mules stepped into view. Irene crouched down, reaching out to pet his hair. “I bet you’re just _starving_ , darling,” she cooed. A manicured nail tapped him on the nose, “You just sit right there while Mummy gets you a bottle.” She stood, disappearing from view; he listened until he heard the click of her heels against the linoleum in the kitchen.

Sherlock shook his head…the fog was beginning to lift, at least, and his mind raced- _‘What is she doing here? Where in the hell was John? (‘Work,’_ he answered his own question as soon as he asked it) _What were these blasted mittens for?...Did she just refer to him as **her**? Mummy???’_

He pushed himself up again, straining hard enough to break out into a sheen of sweat along his forehead, neck, and back. Managing to keep himself up this time, he crawled over to the sofa…but stopped in mid-crawl, hand in the air; he thought he’d heard something.

If there had been some sort of noise, there wasn’t now. He continued over to the couch…wait, there it was again. What _was_ that?

And again, the noise stopped. _‘Sod it; I’ll figure it out later…’_ ; his arms were beginning to give out, anyway…he had to hurry.

It took quite a bit of straining and sheer willpower, but Sherlock finally crawled over to the couch and pulled the front half of his torso onto the cushions, but that was all he could manage before stopping to collect his breath. He took the chance to look about the flat wildly, assessing the situation; nothing in the room seemed out of place, nothing was changed…until he finally glanced down at the rest of his attire.

It was a veritable nightmare in white and lilac (to match the mittens, of course), layers of ruffles and satin ribbons everywhere, the puffy little skirt just barely brushing the tops of his thighs, and was that a…

No.

NO.

He reached between his legs, infuriated beyond any possible scientific measure-that _bitch_ had put him in a nappy, complete with a pair of frilly, ruffled knickers.

Sherlock was positively fuming…naturally, he enjoyed a battle of wits as much as the next man (Ok, well...maybe a _bit_ more than the next man), but this was the goddamned line-no, this was so far _past_ the line, that the line couldn’t even be seen anymore.

He tried to get off his knees and get his legs under him to stand…there, there was that infernal noise again; what _**was**_ that???

Craning his neck, Sherlock looked behind him once again, and noticed his feet for the first time since he’d come to… surprise, surprise, he was in a pair of white, ruffled socks to match the rest of this pastel abortion, complete with tiny little silver bells stitched to the ankles.

_‘Fuck me,’_ he thought with a growl.

Her heels tapped again as she returned, “Dear me, someone’s a fussy little thing; all that kicking about…!” The woman appeared in the doorway and paused, one of those old-fashioned, glass baby bottles in her hand. “Well, look at you, big girl!” she exclaimed, her sickly-sweet tone doing nothing but further infuriating the dolled-up detective. “Were you trying to walk, is that it? Wanted to show off for Mummy?”

“ _I-ireeenn-nneee!_ ” he forced the name from between clenched teeth, the sum of his fury in that one word.

Irene didn’t even flinch, just clucked her tongue and wagged a finger at him, “That is _not_ how good little girls behave!” She quickly crossed the room and landed a (very) firm smack onto his nappy-clad bum. “Don’t make Mummy bare that little bottom, young lady!” she scolded, taking a seat on the cushion next to his head.

Sherlock gaped at her; was she _serious_ right now?!?

Then, in a feat of strength that even he had to admit being momentarily impressed with, Irene sat the bottle aside and hooked her hands under his arms, lifting him into her lap and nestling his head into the crook of her arm…and all he could do was grunt in protest.

Well…he was just going to attribute it to the fact that he was still DRUGGED.

She took the bottle in hand and touched it to his lips, “There’s a good love; drink up for Mummy now.”

_‘Absolutely NOT,_ ’ he thought, pressing his lips together tightly and turning his head away.

“Now, now…let’s have none of that, little miss,” she said, slightly bemused and moving the nipple along with him; he turned again, “N-nn- _nooo_!”

Irene gave an exaggerated little huff, all part of her act as the ‘exasperated mother’. “Sherly, darling, this game isn’t funny anymore…Now, Mummy can either be nice, or she can be mean, but either way…you’re taking this bottle.”

Sherlock glared up at her venomously before using a burst of his still-returning strength to try and roll off her lap; an arm quickly wrapped around his waist and pinned him facedown over her thighs.

Clearly, this wasn’t well-planned on Sherlocks’ part…a rare miss.

“Alright…’mean’ Mummy it is.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she meant, especially in this position, and he renewed his struggling and squirming as he felt his skirt being lifted and his knickers being pulled down to his knees. There was a sharp slap to the back of his right thigh, and he couldn’t bite back his gasp. “Be still, you _naughty_ thing!”

_‘How in the HELL does she expect me to do that while she’s smacking me???’_

He was infuriated, mad enough to choke himself; the churning and boiling in his brain distracting him enough to keep from noticing her undoing the side-pin on his nappy and pulling it down in the back until he momentarily felt cool air across his bare skin…right before another sharp smack landed dead center across both cheeks.

Sherlock yelped-actually _yelped_ ; him, the big bad detective that could take a punch wordlessly. The sting she left in her wake was absolutely mind-boggling; that had _hurt_!

While he was still marveling over that smack and digesting the new sensation, Irene took her chance to rain down several more, evenly covering the whole of Sherlock’s exposed bum with heavy slaps that soon had him squealing and kicking his feet.

My _God_ , but she had some power in that arm!

He’d been determined that he was NOT going to cry, not him, not from a…a _spanking_ , but what he hadn’t counted on was the sheer intensity of hard slap after hard slap, the stinging and burning building up to an unbearable level in just a few short minutes, and he was mortified to feel hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes…he railed against himself internally; she was a _professional_ Domme, of course she knew how to spank effectively!

Sherlock thumped his mittened hands and kicked his feet again; those damned little bells kept jingling, mocking him.

Irene clucked her tongue again, “Bad baby...should’ve listened to Mummy the first time, and now you’re getting this plump little botty smacked; _bad_ little Sherly!”

Then the barrage of smacks stopped, and Sherlock sagged across her lap in relief, his arse feeling hot and prickly. He laid his cheek against the seat of the couch, glad for the chance to catch his breath.

There was a slight change of pressure in the cushion his knees were resting on and, ever curious, he propped up on an elbow and turned to look, immediately regretting it; the woman was reaching between the cushion and back of the couch, pulling out a long, _heavy_ -looking , flat-backed hairbrush.

_‘Oh, NO…’_

Still pinned down by his waist, Sherlock reached back to cover himself. “N-no, n-nn-nooo, _p-pleeeassssse_!” Her scarlet-painted lips curled into a smirk as she calmly took his wrist and wrenched it up behind his back. “Once…” was all she uttered before cracking the flat of the brush down on his already-thoroughly-warmed backside.

_‘Mother of GOD!’_ he thought frantically as he cried out again; that was _so_ much worse than her hand!

She was just as relentless as before, putting as much force behind that damnable brush as she had with her hand, sending Sherlock into pure agony. No matter how he twisted and turned, the bloody thing found a new place to land and ignite, that dreadful sting building up and up and up and UP until he couldn’t take it anymore, and a sob clawed its way out of his throat. “Noo-oo m-moooore, pl-please nooo _moooor-re_!” he begged, his cheeks damp with tears that he hadn’t realized were falling.

Again, she stopped and he wept, with very little relief this time; a cool hand rested on his bottom, gently rubbing some of the sting out. Sherlock felt her lean forward, brushing an errant curl from his sweaty forehead and tucking it behind his ear as her lips brushed the outer curve. “And that’s twice,” she breathed, hardly above a whisper. “I told you I could.”

Sherlock buried his face in his arm, sniveling and humiliated beyond all measure. Irene cooed and petted over him for a little while longer, before catching a glimpse at the clock on the mantle. “Heavens, look at the time! Tsk, we could have had more time to play if _someone_ hadn’t decided they wanted a smacked bottom!”

_‘The very GALL of her…!’_

She patted his bare cheeks again, firmer this time; a warning. “Now, are you ready to take your bottle like the good, sweet little baby you are?”

What little energy Sherlock gained back beforehand had been spent in the fray; there was no more fight left in him…he nodded.

There was a firm slap to a particularly sore spot on his bum, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Say it.”

He fought to unclench his jaw. “Yy-yessss, Mummeeeee,” the words slurred, of course, but they must have satisfied her; he could _feel_ the ‘smug’ radiating off of her and she pinned his nappy back in place, and he hissed at the contact from even the soft fabric over his raw skin. She then pulled his knickers up and readjusted his skirt before gently rolling him back into place in the crook of her arm.

“Oh, such a _pouty_ face!” she practically hummed, stroking a wet cheek with her finger in a show of such…such _gentleness_ , that it was almost impossible to believe that same hand had just beaten him into submission.

The throbbing below his waist reminded him otherwise.

Irene flashed him that predatory smile, picking the bottle back up. “Lovely; it’s still warm!”

She pressed the nipple back against his lips, and just as he was going to turn his head again, same as earlier, the arm cradling his head curled around and her hand held his forehead firmly in place. “Sweetheart,” she said, an underlying current of danger in her otherwise sugary tone. “The bottom-warming you just received is going to seem like a game of patty-cake' compared to what you’re going to get if you don’t. take. this. bottle.”

It only took a moments appraisal of the woman and her demeanour to conclude that she was _not_ bluffing; not in the slightest. He closed his eyes, playing out both scenarios (i.e. take the bottle or no) and, after determining that he was indeed going to lock this whole experience away in the deepest dregs of his mind palaces’ dungeon, he reopened his eyes…as well as his mouth.

That damned smile was back, along with her disgustingly-sweet tone. “There’s a good, _smart_ girl for Mummy!” she praised him, placing the rubber nipple gently between his lips.

It was certainly a _new_ sensation, yet strangely familiar; Sherlock had always had a bit of an oral fixation, especially as a child, constantly examining things with his mouth-as an adult, however, his only indulgence had been cigarettes. And since it had been a _long_ while since he’d had one of those…

The curiosity won out over indignation in the end; he could be furious later, right now he wanted to focus on what was happening so he could examine the memory at length in his own time. Closing his eyes again so he wouldn’t have to look at her smug-bitch face, he began to suckle.

The warm liquid hit his tongue and the bitterness surprised him; he sputtered, spitting the bottle out and letting milk (well, it _looked_ like milk, but surely not, not with that taste!) dribble out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

“Oh, bless!” Irene exclaimed, sitting him up and bracing an arm across his chest while the other patted his back. “Someone was a little too eager, weren’t they? Yes, yes…it’s alright…”

He continued to cough and splutter while she lightly thumped against his back (which, though he was _loathe_ to admit it, was oddly helpful), murmuring encouragements at him. “You have to slow down, darling; we don’t want you getting strangled!”

Slowly, Sherlock got his breath back. “Wha-what issss tha-?” he mumbled.

Irene eased him back into her arm again. “It’s just formula, dear…a _special_ mix for ‘big’ babies!” she said, tapping his nose and wiping the dribbles off his chin with her thumb.

_‘…Special mix?’_

He didn’t have time to dwell on her wording much before the bottle was popped back into his mouth and he began to suck again, more slowly. He kept his eyes open this time, watching the woman and simultaneously plotting his revenge…something with electricity, perhaps…

Irene just beamed back down at him, holding the bottle steady and every once in a while using a finger to stroke his cheek or brush a lock of hair out of his face. “My, my,” she said, finally. “There is something just so _gorgeously_ obscene about the shape of those lips wrapped around that nipple…Mummy just might give in and let you have her breast next time…”

Sherlock ignored her; he was busy trying to analyze the flavours rolling onto his tongue-he’d obviously never made a habit of tasting different brands of baby formula in recent years, so while he didn’t have a precise idea of what it should taste like, there had been several instances of catching whiffs of it in public, enough to hazard a guess, anyway, and this stuff was… _different_ , somehow.

The detective was so engrossed, he didn’t realize that the hand holding the bottle was trading places with the one that held his head, and the now-free one snaking down the length of his body and slipping down the front of his knickers, squeezing firmly.

He snapped back from his thoughts, grunting in surprise and trying to arch out of her grip, whimpering as the action only pressed against his sore bottom painfully. The squeezing itself wasn’t terribly hard; it was just this side of uncomfortable, really, but still…he frantically tried to push her hand off of him, but couldn’t muster the strength to do more than bat at her with those awful fuzzy mittens.

But wait…hadn’t his strength been returning, slowly but surely? Well, the kicking and struggling had taken a bit out of him, certainly…but that had been awhile ago, shouldn’t he have gained some back, after just lying there?

It hit him then, just before the fog began to roll back in and cloud his thoughts once more: the bottle, why she’d been so insistent, that _taste_ -Rohypnol. The woman had fucking _roofied_ him…Oh, he was so _stupid_!

He jerked his head to the side and spat again; this time she let him, seeing the realization dawn on him and smiling like the cat who caught the proverbial canary, hand still at his crotch.

Sherlock struggled weakly in her grip, which was now alternating between squeezing and kneading, and all he could do was moan and whimper and flail as his body betrayed him and began to react to Irenes’… _attentions_.

She could feel it, as well…and who could fail to notice that charming little flush spread across those sculpted cheekbones and that adorable little look of panic in those ever-changing eyes?

“Well, someone’s having _fun_ , aren’t they?” she said, more of a statement than an actual question, not even bothering to mask the condescension anymore, and sped up her movements.

He gurgled, his tongue refusing to work anymore. His cock was embarrassingly and painfully hard; the sensation of her palm stroking him through the cloth nappy was dizzying, even if he hadn’t been pumped full of drugs. A heat was building up low in his belly and his hips, unbidden, began to buck against her hand while he emitted soft, quick little grunts.

“Good girl, oh, _good_ girl, Sherly…that’s it, make ‘stickies’ for Mummy!”

He felt her hand move away and he whimpered again, not stopping to think about whether it was in relief, or disappointment. He wouldn’t have had time to answer that, in any case; there was a very crude spitting noise and seconds later it was back, slipping down into the nappy itself and gripping his actual cock, jerking him off quickly.

Sherlock squeaked…yes, an honest-to-God _squeak_ …and came, his vision growing fuzzy and dark around the edges, whole body tensing to a near-painful level and growing intensely hot all over; he felt his own warm semen pooling into the bottom of his nappy and running down the crack of his arse.

Irene continued to stroke him, milking every drop-her mouth moved, but Sherlock was beyond hearing anything right now; stars and vibrant coloured dots swam into his vision and, for the second time since they’d first met, he focused on that scarlet-painted mouth as his world went dark.

Sherlock woke hours later, in his favourite armchair, fully dressed in his favourite blue dressing gown and flannel lounge pants. His head was lolling on his chest, neck at an awkward angle…there was that awful wrapped-in-cotton feeling enveloping him again.

He raised his head slowly, a thin line of saliva hanging from his bottom lip to a wet spot on his shirt where his mouth had gone slack. Had he just fallen asleep, his body so exhausted and strained from being pushed to its limits on a regular basis, that he’d had a stress dream?

Looking about the room, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand-everything _seemed_ normal enough; so sign of The Woman, or anyone, for that matter. Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it, and winced as his neck muscles pulled and burned in protest.

There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and he flopped his head in that direction, mouth still gaping, as the door opened and John entered, looking a little worn and haggard from a long day at the clinic, but was still the most welcome of sights in all the world right now.

“Jj-jjoohhhhnnnn…” Sherlock slurred, moving to stand and failing, falling back onto his backside-he hissed and arched his back as pain bloomed across his arse.

_‘It wasn’t a dream.’_

John cast a sideways glance at him while removing his coat, an odd look on his face that Sherlock read as him trying to decide if this was another of the detectives’ ‘quirks’, or if there was something genuinely wrong. “S’the matter with you?”

Sherlock pushed himself up again, making it to his feet and turning towards the doctor before his legs buckled underneath him, dropping him to the floor in a heap of limbs and a grunt.

“ _Sherlock_!” John dropped his things and was at his side in an instant, rolling the man onto his back and feeling at his neck for a pulse. “Sherlock,” he tried again, patting the side of his face lightly. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“Ssstop hittttttingggg meeeeee…”

John sat back on his heels and gave a heavy sigh of relief, “Well, at least you’re _gonna_ be alright…what the hell happened???”

Sherlock flopped bonelessly over onto his side, attempting to push up on one arm. “Drugggggeddd…” he mumbled.

John took his shoulder and gently forced him to lay back, his brow furrowing, all serious now. “Who?” was all he said, not a doubt in his mind that this wasn’t self-induced; the only question was literally ‘who?’-they didn’t have a narrow list of suspects that wanted to slip the man something, unfortunately.

“Heeeeerrrr…”

John snorted, “Oh my _God_ , are you two still at that game? Doesn’t trying to one-up each other ever get boring?” He answered his own question, “No, of course it doesn’t.” Another sigh. “C’mon, Casanova, lets get you in bed; sleep it off.”

He moved behind Sherlock and lifted him from under the shoulders into a sitting position, failing to notice the man grimace at the pressure on his bum.

Once John got him onto his feet, with no small amount of moaning and groaning on either of their parts, he put the taller mans’ arm over his own shoulders, bearing his weight. They took two shaky steps before Sherlock fell to his knees again, breathing heavily.

The doctor held him steady, his own breathing a little laboured. “You know,” he wheezed. “You look a bit like one of those newborn baby giraffes, all wobbly and legs akimbo and all that.”

Sherlock glared at him, the effect sort of lost with the slack-jawed expression. “Shhhuuuttttuuuup.”

John ignored him, blowing a puff of air and rubbing his forehead; there was no way Sherlock could make the trek to his room in this state. “Ok, look…I’m going to do something, and I want you to go with it…bitch about it later if you want, but just…just go with it for now, ok?”

Before Sherlock could utter a syllable, John stooped down and gathered the man onto his shoulders in a ‘fireman’s carry’, grunting as he lifted with his knees and thanking God that his room was downstairs.

Sherlock was positively seething; there was _no end_ to the injustices and indignities to be suffered this day! 

John was steadily huffing his way through the hall, turned slightly to avoid whacking Mr. Gi-freaking-gantics’ head against the wall, when he took a particularly deep breath through his nose, and paused.

Sherlock, ever impatient, especially with someone’s head pressing right against his groin, looked up and snapped, “Geeeet _on_ wiiiith iiit!”

John sniffed again, giving serious consideration to the possibility that the exertion was causing him to stroke out, because there was no possible way he was smelling-

“Sherlock, is that…that sweet smell…are you…is that _baby powder_?”

“…”

“…”

_‘Fucking woman.’_


End file.
